Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. Activity in the hall intensified. ‘Now then,’ said the captain sternly, ‘I’m not going to ask you what you’re doing here. They don’t now. . "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit.
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